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Chapter Twenty-Three

P lay with heart.

I’ve been thinking about that phrase ever since I signed a coffee receipt for that kid in Arizona.

I think that’s why wearing my dad’s old jersey has so much power.

It reminds me to keep my perspective right, to have fun playing a game that— oof, beats me why, but—someone is willing to pay me to do. Even if only for a year.

I hit the call button on my truck screen when I’m about two miles out from the stadium, and Peyton picks up on the first ring.

“So, did you decide to wear it?” Her first words instead of, hello.

“I did, even though running it through the wash seemed to make it tighter,” I say, chuckling as I tug the collar of my dad’s jersey away from my neck.

I can still move my arms with full range, but I hope the fabric relaxes after I wear it for a bit.

It only needs to make it through warmups before I change into full pads and the game-day jersey.

I debated bothering to wear it again, but then Peyton pointed out that I was letting a grown-ass man bully me if I didn’t. Besides, this might be the last game I get to start. Chance is set to play the last preseason game, and if his elbow holds up, I’m sure he’ll be the season starter.

“I was thinking,” Peyton says. I can hear the chatter of her family in the background, her uncle and aunt laughing while her mom shouts at them to quit being immature.

I can picture them all piled in the living room, waiting for my game to start, playing poker or Monopoly for money, which they sometimes do.

“Not sure how anyone can think in that room,” I joke.

“Right? Quiet is not a Johnson trait, it seems. Hold on.” Her voice sounds muffled. She must be moving to another room.

I pull up to stop at the light before the main road to the stadium.

It’s four hours before game time, but newly-minted Cyclones fans are already tailgating in the expansive parking lot.

The community part of this game is pretty cool.

All someone needed to do to bring it to Portland was plant a billion-dollar seed.

“There. I can hear you now,” Peyton says.

“There are so many people here already,” I tell her, when suddenly a man walks by wearing a Cyclones jersey with my name on the back.

“Oh, shit!”

I cover my mouth and punch out a laugh.

“Please say you didn’t hit someone,” Peyton says, I think only half kidding.

“Babe, someone just walked by in a Stone jersey. I shit you not. Dude spent a hundred bucks to show up to a preseason game with my jersey. What the actual?—”

“That’s how good you are, Wy. Take it in. Own it,” she says.

I rub my palm over my face as the light turns green and someone honks at me from behind. I shake myself out of my daze and pull through the intersection, but I crane my neck as I pass my first non-familial fan.

“This is wild,” I whisper.

Peyton’s soft giggle snaps me back to the present.

“Sorry, you were saying something about thinking?”

I wonder how many of those things they made. Or where that guy got it. The surprised thoughts keep coming.

“I love this for you, Wy. I wish I could see it,” she says.

I miss her. But I don’t want her feeling guilty for not being here.

“You’ve seen my name on a jersey before. You aren’t missing much,” I joke.

“That’s what I was thinking about, actually. Or rather, your dad’s jersey,” she says.

“Yeah?”

I run my palm down the fire logo on the front, my thumb finding the small tear my mom repaired for my dad with her sewing machine. The white thread she used doesn’t quite match the jersey.

“I think you should tell Chance why it’s so important. Tell the team, maybe. If they knew the meaning behind it, maybe they wouldn’t be so intimidated by it.”

I chuckle at her choice of words.

“Peyt, I don’t think they’re intimidated. They’re just dickheads who like to bust balls and make fun of things.”

“Maybe,” she hums. “But at least one of them is intimidated.”

She means Chance.

I nod, then utter, “Yeah, maybe.”

He’s threatened, for sure; I can understand that. Hell, I’m threatened by him. I simply have the comfort of knowing I’m not the QB who is part of the team’s future. He is. Though, I am going to try like hell to change their minds. I suppose that’s intimidating.

“Who made you so smart?” I say, slowing as I approach the security gate by the team parking lot. I roll my window down, and Earl, our head of security, bumps my fist, then waves me through.

“Well, one of my parents got straight A’s. The other played football.”

Ouch!

“Ha, I’m not sure if that was a dig at me or your dad or all of us.”

She doesn’t answer, so I assume the latter is probably right.

“I love you,” I tell her as I pull into my spot.

“Love you. I’ll be cheering for you. Close your eyes and try to hear me.”

I promise to try, then end our call.

Whiskey pulls up next to me as I’m dragging my duffle bag across the back seat of my truck’s cab.

He and Tasha have made this entire thing feel a little more normal, letting me join their family for dinner a few nights a week.

Whiskey likes to joke about how I help even the score in his house, but he’s crazy to think I would ever vote against his wife in any situation.

Tasha will always scare the shit out of me.

“You getting bigger, Wy? Or is that thing getting smaller?” He tugs at the center of my jersey, the slack a lot less than it was before I washed it.

“A little of both, I think.” I grab his hand and pull him in for a bro hug.

We make our way inside, the scent in the training room already strong with pre-wrap spray.

“Bro, I’ve missed this. It’s damn good to be back,” Whiskey says.

“No doubt,” I agree, dropping my stuff on the bench in front of my cubby. My chest tightens at the thought of not being here with him next season. It’s such a strange tug-of-war, being pulled between home with Peyt and the field with my best friend.

“Fuck, with this again?”

Chance’s remarks come out in a mumble, but it’s clear enough for me.

It was meant for me in the first place. Unfortunately, his words reach Whiskey, too, and my friend slams down his pads to march toward the young hotshot.

A few of the other guys get up, and I mentally play out the brawl that’s about to start.

Before I’m fully aware of what my body is doing, I find myself standing between Whiskey and Chance, my back to the quarterback and my hands on my friend’s chest.

I dip my chin to give him a hard stare that I hope calms him. The big guy’s nostrils are flaring.

“I got this.”

His eyes flinch.

“I’m sure,” I say.

He nods and takes a step back. I turn my attention to Chance, whose gaze is still fixed on Whiskey. I snap in his face, forcing his attention to me, because I’m a little irritable. When his friends flinch, though, I back off.

“Take a seat for a second.” I keep my expression composed, my eyes soft.

Chance resists at first because he doesn’t like to be told what to do. That’s going to be problematic for him down the road, but that’s a talk for another time.

“Please,” I add.

He finally takes a step back and sits down. I gesture for his friends to do the same, as well as Whiskey, and within a few seconds, the dozen or so guys in the locker room are all seated and ready to listen to me.

If they knew the meaning behind it, maybe they wouldn’t be so intimidated by it.

“I know you guys don’t know me, my story, how I got here. I get that. I’m not Hickory over here, coming from Heisman talk, college playoffs, one of the best showings at the Combine since?—”

“Ever,” Chance adds. Yeah, he’s going to need to work on arrogance.

“Right, good for you.” My response gets a small chuckle from those who understand I’m mocking him. Of course, he doesn’t. In a way, I envy his ability to be na?ve to other people’s opinions of him.

“My story is a little different. I broke a lot of records in high school and set a few more at Arizona in my first two years. I didn’t have the same numbers after that, partly because my girlfriend at the time, who is now my wife, broke her spine.

She had to completely relearn how to do just about everything.

And I wanted to be there for that. I chose to. ”

The quiet in the room is palpable. This might be my only shot to win these guys over.

“This jersey I’m wearing . . . it was my dad’s.

He died before my senior year of high school.

Cancer. He was a firefighter, and there are risks.

They don’t really tell you about the cancer risks when you sign up for the job.

People like my dad dream of being firefighters.

It starts in childhood, with the red firetrucks and the cool hats.

Kind of hard to make cancer a part of that conversation. ”

My gaze drifts around the room, the solemn faces staring back at me. Whiskey nods as he stands with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“My dad was the quarterback for the Arizona Fire team. Sure, it’s not the pros. But don’t tell any member of Arizona’s public safety that. Those games are always serious. And my dad’s teams won it all a few times.”

I look down at the logo and smile to myself.

“Wearing this jersey reminds me to be the man he taught me to be. I don’t have the hype. I’m the old guy. But I’m also Todd Stone’s son. And this jersey, however corny you all seem to think it is, reminds me to be the best version of myself.”

I hold my open palms out and shrug, looking Chance’s friends in the eyes before slowly turning to face him again.

“We cool?”

I hold out my fist for him to bump. He chews at the inside of his mouth for a second, then tilts his head to one side, cracking his neck before bumping my fist.

“Yeah, we cool.”

And for now, I think we are.